Look at Us Both
by FallIntoTheGrey
Summary: John is trying to move on with his life after he watches Sherlock step off of the roof of St. Bart's. That is, until Irene Adler drags him to another warehouse in the middle of nowhere to play another one of her mind games.


_**Hello all! This is my first Sherlock story, a post-Reichenbach scene between John and Irene. I am slightly obsessed with the **__**manipulative, extremely sexy **__**Woman, so I had to include her in my first Sherlock story. The scene between John and her in Scandal was one of my favorites, so I played off of that scene in this story.**_

**_That being said, Irene is an extremely hard character to write. I tried to keep her fairly in character, but it's difficult. If you have any suggestions for how I could improve her characterization in later stories, I would greatly appreciate it. _**

**_This story does have slashy undertones, so if you don't like that, I suggest you don't read this. _**

**_Please, read, enjoy, and, if you are so inclined, review. I appreciate any and all constructive criticism. _**

**_Thanks, _**

**_Grey_**

* * *

John woke with a shout, his sheets tangled around his legs, his heart racing. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to push the image out of his head.

The fall haunted him. Six months had passed, but still every night, he watched his best friend step off of the roof of St. Bart's and plummet to his death. Every night, he would scream his name, praying it would stop him, but every time, his shout would be followed by the sickening crack of the detective's spine breaking. He would always wake then, his friend's bloody, lifeless face floating behind his eyes.

Untangling himself, he swung his legs out of bed, glancing at his alarm clock. 6:00 am. He had to get up in 30 minutes away. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep now. Not that he would be able to. The face dancing through his mind made sure of that.

He hauled himself to his feet and shuffled to his miniscule kitchen. More like a fridge and microwave with a table large enough for half a person. But it had a coffee maker and that was all he cared about at the moment. He poured the black liquid into a mug, trying to ignore the memory of Sherlock's experiment on him with the sugar in the coffee. Today was not the day for sentiment.

It had taken a few months for John to return to something that resembled a normal life. For the first month, he had been in shock. He sat in Sherlock's chair in 221B and hardly moved, letting Mrs. Hudson worry and flit about him. When the shock wore off weeks later, he felt like he was suffocating in the flat. He would make every effort to avoid it, only returning to sleep and change clothes.

His meager savings could only support such a lifestyle for so long, though. Without Sherlock's support, he could no longer afford the Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson insisted he could stay, even significantly lowered the rent for him, but his sense of pride and honor wouldn't let him accept her charity. He hastily packed up his things and moved into the cramped flat he found in Whitechapel, close to his work. Sarah had helped him secure a job at the Royal London Hospital, despite the way he had treated her, neglecting her every time a new case came up. The look of pity in her eyes every time she saw him now replaced the anger she had previously shown him. He was grateful to her, certainly, and he knew he owed her dinner at the very least, but basic daily tasks were still a struggle, especially when nightmares stole sleep from him.

But today was going to be different. He was going to start his job, he was going to meet with his therapist, and he was going to live like a normal human being. After a small breakfast of eggs, toast, and more coffee, he shaved, showered, and dressed. Adjusting his tie in the mirror, he wished he could do something about the tired look in his eyes, but vowed that this job would not be like the last one. He no longer had to go traipsing through London at all hours of the day and night; there was no excuse for falling asleep on the job now.

Pounding down the stairs, he stepped out on to the sidewalk, taking a deep breath of crisp London morning air. As he started to walk towards the hospital, a light voice sounded from behind him. "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

He turned and found a woman tapping away at a smart phone. "Jesus, really?" he exclaimed. "Today?"

The woman only reached for the door of the black sedan idling by the curb. God, John thought to himself, all of the women Mycroft employs look the same. Long brown hair, black dress or, in this case, pant suit, and an expensive looking phone her large amber eyes never left.

"I'm supposed to start my job today. Doesn't Mycroft know that?"

"It's all been arranged," she replied, sounding bored. "The hospital has been informed that you are suffering from food poisoning and will not be coming today."

"He does think of everything, doesn't he?"

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson," she said forcefully, lifting her eyes from her phone for the first time.

Too tired to resist, John slid into the car, letting it take him to whatever warehouse Mycroft deemed fit for this unexpected meeting.

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped at what John guessed, judging by the smell, was an old sweet factory. His anger at Mycroft had escalated during the ride, so as he strode into the building, he was muttering every unpleasant thing he planned to say to the elder Holmes brother under his breath.

"It's been six months," he called out into the darkness as he walked through the door. "Six bloody months, Mycroft, and this is the first time I've heard a single word from you since he—since it happened. You weren't even at the funeral. For Christ sake's, he was your brother, you arrogant, self-absorbed-"

He stopped short when the lights flashed on and standing in front of him was not Mycroft Holmes, head of the British government, but the Woman. Dressed in a black dress that hugged every curve and wearing her characteristic red lipstick, the dominatrix stood before him with what John swore were tears glittering in her eyes that she quickly blinked away.

"Hello, Dr. Watson."

"You," he breathed. "Should I even bother saying you're supposed to be dead? It seems this is a habit for you, playing dead and then suddenly coming back to life when you want to talk to me in a bloody warehouse. Nice touch, this, the old sweet factory," he added, gesturing around him. "But I shouldn't have expected anything less from you."

"I understand you're upset, John-"

"You're damned right I'm upset, Irene! What do you want? I'm trying to move on with my life and I don't need you dragging me into the middle of nowhere for these blasted meetings."

"No, you're not," she said nonchalantly.

"I'm not what?"

"You're not moving on. Not even close."

"The hell I'm not. I've got my own flat and a new job that you happened to rip me away from on the first day. I was trying to live a normal life until you showed up."

"Then why do you have his violin?" she asked accusingly. "You don't play it, just take it out of the case and look at it occasionally. And you've started talking to his skull when you're bored. And I'm pretty sure that's his scarf peeking out of your pocket." John looked down to see the corner of Sherlock's royal blue scarf. He quickly stuffed it back down, a faint flush coming to his cheeks. "Does it still smell like him, John?"

Ignoring her barb, he asked through gritted teeth, "How do you know all of that? Those things are in my flat."

"I know a secret intelligence service agent who lives in the building across from you, or, I know what he likes. He did some surveillance on you in exchange for my services."

"What do you want? And why are you having someone spy on me? If you want me to admit that I miss him, fine, I'll say it. I miss him. I miss him every damned day. But you wouldn't bother with all of this just for me to admit that. So what do you want? What's in it for you?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was worried about you?"

John laughed, "Right."

"Well, I am. We're more alike than you realize, John."

"Don't say that," he seethed. "I am nothing like you. I wouldn't sell someone out for money."

A pained expression crossed her usually unexpressive face, but she quickly smoothed it over. "As much as you may want to deny it, Doctor, we are alike."

"How?" John asked incredulously.

She simply smiled, breezing over the question that hung between them. A sly glint formed in her eye. "It's ok, you know?"

"What?" he asked sharply.

"You know what."

"No, no, no, NO!" he yelled, his voice echoing around them. "I am not going to stand here and listen to you pretend you know a thing about me."

"I know you, Doctor Watson. It seems I know you better than you know yourself."

"Bugger off," he spat.

But she was undeterred. "Or maybe you do know, you just don't want to admit it. But there's no point in hiding anymore. Not in front of me. We're the same, remember?"

"Stop! Just stop!"

"You were jealous."

"Stop."

"You were. Every time I would even get near him, you would get defensive and interrupt us. Hamish, isn't it? Your middle name?"She raised her eyebrows, her mouth quirking in a satisfied smirk.

"I was just trying to keep you from playing with him. He didn't understand what you were doing, but I did."

"How sweet. The little man being so protective."

"Don't patronize me!"

"But there was more to it than that, wasn't there? For the first time since you'd known him, you weren't the center of his universe. There was someone else he was seeking approval from and you felt threatened."

"What are you going on about?"

"Stop pretending you don't know what I'm talking about." She finally raised her voice, anger and frustration lighting her eyes.

"I told you before, I'm not actually gay."

"And I'm not straight," she yelled, "but that didn't stop me from falling for him. It doesn't matter, John. You can love him, no matter who you say you are."

"Stop talking about love like you actually know what it is. How could you? You take your clothes off for a living."

"I take my clothes off to make an impression," she corrected. "But that doesn't mean I'm incapable of caring."

"If you cared for him, why did you sell him out? To Moriarty?"

"If I had known what Moriarty was doing-" she stopped, looking down at the floor. "No, even if I had known what Moriarty was doing, I would have worked for him. He offered me protection, John, more protection than even Mycroft Holmes could give me. But I have regretted what I did every day. I hurt him and I never meant to do that. Though, admittedly, I never thought I could hurt him, the godlike Sherlock Holmes. But Moriarty knew he had a heart and he wanted to use me to get to it."

"You were supposed to be the fire, to burn his heart out."

"Oh, John, I was only supposed to be an ember. An ember in a forest fire. But he got to me. He got under my skin and I couldn't help but be drawn to him."

"You loved Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't know, maybe." For the first time, John thought, Irene actually looked vulnerable. As if admitting to such a high level of emotion stripped her down to a much greater extent than what she did every day.

"And yet you still betrayed him." The accusation cut through the air between them.

Irene just rolled her eyes. "I was playing the game, John. It's always about playing the game. But you know that, don't you?"

"Stop with the cryptic little quips."

"Fine. If you don't want to cooperate, I'll just play the game myself," she purred as she sauntered over to him. "I did learn a few things from Sherlock, so let's see if the student can rival the teacher. What can I deduce about you, Doctor Watson?"

"Stop," John warned, trying to back away from her.

But Irene grabbed his arm before he could move. "No, no, no," she gently scolded, "you are going to stay right here and listen to me. Either voluntarily or," she paused, pulling out a syringe full of God knows what, "involuntarily."

John only glared at her.

"There," she murmured as she placed a hand on his chest, "now that you're cooperating, I can begin." She circled him like a predator, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight. John could tell, she was going to make him squirm and she was going to enjoy it.

"Bloodshot eyes and dark circles indicate a lack of sleep, caused by, if your tense shoulders are anything to go by, nightmares. You're obviously trying to cope with your exhaustion using caffeine, by the strong smell of coffee on your breath and the grinds under your fingernails, but coffee's not working anymore, is it? That's why you've got caffeine pills stashed in your trouser pocket," she stated while sticking her hand in said pocket, making John squirm, "and a new bottle of sleeping pills in your coat pocket. You picked those up last night but forgot to take them.

"You forgot to take them because you were too busy getting ready for work, weren't you? I have to say, it was adorable watching you picking out your clothes for today like a little schoolboy. But you have to do that, don't you? So you don't wear something that will remind you of him? You want to wear something professional, but, of course, you can't wear your good suit because that's what you wore to Moriarty's trial. So you go for the older suit you had stored at Harry's. I would suggest you just go buy yourself new clothes, but you can't do that, can you? Because buying new clothes suggests that you're moving on. You can't wear the clothes you have because now they're all associated with him in some way, but you can't get rid of them either for the sheer fact that they are associated with him.

"Then there's the scarf in your pocket. Really, John, that's sweet. That you need to take a piece of him with you everywhere you go. But you can't wear it, because it still smells like him and having that wrapped around your neck would just be too overwhelming. And people would talk and you've always been so afraid of that. That's why you keep it in your pocket. You can touch it and pull it out when you need to, when no one can see you. Because a military man like you never lets anyone see his tears.

"You think your military training is enough to hide your feelings. If you could remain stoic through bullets flying past your head and bombs going off, why can't you do the same now, right? And your attempt has been admirable. Your about-face turn at Sherlock's grave almost had me convinced-"

"How dare you!" John seethed, bristling under the idea that this _woman_ could have seen such an intimate moment.

"But no one's fooled, John," she continued, not even acknowledging his outrage. "You're always so controlled. Or, I should say, you were. Now you snap at everyone. I expected you to bark at me; you certainly didn't hold back the last time we met. But poor Mrs. Hudson. You practically chased her out the door when she wanted to help you pack up some of Sherlock's things. And that pathetic little pathologist who was always mooning over Sherlock. She left Baker Street in tears the one and only time she checked on you. And when Gregory Lestrade leaves a flat looking haunted and unreasonably guilty, you know things are bad. Not much riles the Detective Inspector. He could handle finding Moriarty dressed in the crown jewels, but he can't handle a twenty-minute visit to your flat?

"I know you still have your gun in your desk drawer and you're pulling it out more and more now. More than you ever did before you met Sherlock. But that's not the only thing you've done, is it? You didn't need a new bottle of sleeping pills, but you know that your therapist is so frustrated dealing with you that she would find a way to get them to you just to get you out of her office. And you and I both know this new bottle isn't for helping you sleep. There's no use hiding it anymore, John. We all know the truth; you just don't want to accept it."

"I'm not handling this well," John relented. "I know that. But the gun and the pills, those have just been moments of weakness."

"No, they haven't."

John just stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. That damned woman.

"Tell me what all the rest of us know, John. Tell me what you're too scared to admit."

"I'm not coping," he murmured, knowing that that wasn't what she wanted. "I'm not coping at all. And there are days I want to die, want to kill myself."

"But why, John? Why aren't you coping?"

"Because I loved him!" John finally shouted. "I loved him and now my life is empty without him." A sob tore through him, as if it had been waiting for him to finally make that revelation. Irene watched the broken man in front of her, a genuine look of pity on her face. "My life until now has been divided into two parts: before Sherlock and with Sherlock. I was barely living before I met Sherlock. But he changed everything. His quirks and vibrancy were like a breath of fresh air. Before him, I had been surrounded by people who pitied me and feared my instability. And I couldn't take anymore of their bullshit sympathy. But Sherlock didn't bloody care. He didn't care that I had been a soldier, that I had been in the war, that I was injured. At first, I was a breathing skull, a sounding board that he didn't expect to respond. But we grew together. I learned how to think like him, at least slightly. And I think he hardened me a bit, even more than the war did. I had to have a tough skin to survive living with him, with all of the unintentional but still stinging insults flying about. And I like to think I changed him too. That may be arrogant of me, but he did seem more human at the end.

"I guess, along the way, I learned to love him. But it wasn't normal love, physical love. It was never like that. It was deeper. Suddenly, I felt like I was tethered to him. When he was euphoric over a case or depressed over the lack of one, so was I. Soon, I only felt like myself if I was working a case with him or sitting in 221B surrounded by his experiments and his violin.

"I didn't know how to live without him any longer and that terrified me. So I went through my string of girlfriends and, one by one, they walked away and I didn't care. And it scared me that I didn't care. I didn't want to rely on him, but I didn't know how to stop myself.

"And now, I'm wishing every damn day that I could have stopped myself. Because I relied on him completely and without him, I'm lost. There is no life for me after Sherlock. I don't want there to be. Because I love-" he hesitated, trying to clear the lump in his throat, "loved Sherlock Holmes."

"Finally," was Irene's only response, a satisfied smile on her face. She pulled out her mobile, tapping quickly at the keys.

John stared at her incredulously. "God dammit, Irene! You manipulate me into admitting this and then you start playing with your mobile." He stalked up to her, pulling the phone out of her hand. "What's so damn important?"

His stomach flipped when he read the text.

_You're not dead. Let's have dinner. _

"What?" John stammered while Irene took her phone back. But she didn't get to answer. Instead, a breathy moan echoed through the building. Too shocked to move, he only looked at the woman with wide eyes.

"I think so, don't you?" she said with a smile.

John didn't respond. He just turned on his heel and ran, reaching the hallway just in time to see the back of a black wool trench coat disappear through the door.


End file.
